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The Lonely Inside by Snow Taylor December 20, 2006 It is lonely here among things so familiar no energy is spent in their recollection. Even in the dark I see them, know them well. It is lonely here and growing more so among people I have known longest and best; familiar people who need no recalling to my mind because they are always there, inside the warm places. But now I seem to know only their faces; their hearts are strange and foreign to me and they have made my heart just an old acquaintance as they brush by to the comfort of more pleasant places and later times with newer faces. It is lonely here where angry voices grow angrier. I find myself trying to dodge verbal arrows that fly with their deadly poison aimed at the middle of my heart. But there are just too many to avoid all of them. I am caught by surprise as their sharp points plunge into my softest spot, painfully hitting their mark, causing new hurt that neither they nor I thought could be. It really is lonely here and there must be some way to make it less so. Can't we talk, or maybe play that new game you gave me at Christmas, or just turn the pages of pictures carefully placed in our book called Yesterday? No, I am told, it is a time for making new memories and letting new friends sit close and turn the pages until they grow sleepy and rest on each other's chest where relationships are easier to get and forget. I am on the outside now looking in at new memories being made because the old ones just don't wear well anymore. My vision is becoming blurred, partly by my breathing against the window and partly by the tears that come when love is lost. It is cold out here, unfriendly too, where darkness and chill make a hostile pair against any who seek refuge in their world. I walk away and the voices inside become faint as the power of night swallows them whole. It is difficult to hear or think. My heavy breathing now crowds out the sounds of tonight and perhaps forever. Am I leaving or have I been left? Never mind, tonight is too cold for thinking, but tomorrow the chill will leave. And when it is warm, I will think again about where I will find warmth, inside or out. Will those I know so well whose coldness chills me now find a way to warm me once more? I them as well? Or are all of the precious things we remember frozen forever in the time and space of yesterday— a memory too stiff and painful to recall. Will tomorrow be a new day and will hope rise with the morning sun? Or is life now merely about opportunities lost in the frailty of humans being? About the author: I am a 70 year-old male; retired from a paying job and living on the North Carolina coast. | | | |
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